


Warlock

by scatterglory



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, M/M, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a humiliating day at work, Merlin knows just how to unwind.</p><p>Written for Kinkspiration Round 5: Roleplay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warlock

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a transformative work of fan-love. I make no profit and claim no ownership.

Merlin feels the shift as soon as his skin comes in contact with the leather. He shivers slightly, the cool air of the changing room tickling over his naked skin, as he cradles the soft cowhide in his hands. It’s the deep, pure black of a night without stars, well-worn and broken in just how he likes it. The faint shine of the finish catches the dim light, and he gives in to the urge to rub it across his cheek, just once.

The leather shimmies up his legs and over his arse like a lover, cradling his half-hard cock as he does up the zip with steady fingers. The tension that’s been radiating across his shoulders and down his back, up his neck and straight into his temples, has already begun to dissipate. When the open-front vest, fingerless gloves, studded belt and steel-toed boots join the trousers on his body, he can actually feel his muscles loosen. Raising his head, he catches his own reflection in the long mirror at the end of the room, and bares his teeth in a smile.

Gone is the beleaguered PA of Pendragon Enterprises’ notorious CEO, with his expensive suits, stifling ties, and hair that rebels against all attempts to meet some arbitrary corporate code. In his place, shoulders thrown back, head held high, and blue eyes burning with a cold internal flame, stands Warlock.

* * *

 _Avalon_ is busy tonight. It’s not unheard of for such a crowd to assemble on a Tuesday, and Merlin decides he’s glad it has. Arthur Pendragon, the most brutal boss Merlin’s ever had and the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, was in rare form today and Merlin wants an audience.

Mergers and acquisitions, proposals and memoranda, profit margins and overhead are the last things on his mind as he slinks through the crowd. Word of his arrival precedes him, and the club regulars acknowledge him according to their roles. The other Doms and the rarer Dommes nod their greetings with varying degrees of warmth; their subs cower with the delicious fear that he'll be invited to play, and accept. The unclaimed subs try to catch his eye without appearing to do so, putting themselves on display and offering everything.

But none of them tempt him tonight. He needs more than a play date, even with a trusted friend; something hot and fierce sings through his veins, the smouldering embers of a day of humiliation fanned into flame by a swift gust of power. The sharp, biting criticism of his boss is nothing compared to the low murmurs that surround him as he passes, the awed and admiring whispers of his name.

 _Warlock_ , they breathe, explaining to those who don't already know him. _He doesn't come as often as he used to, but he's one to watch. Don't take your eyes off him._ Never _take your eyes off him._

Their eyes are all on him, but his eyes are fixed on the stage in the centre of the club.

He stalks over to the stage and walks along the perimeter, drinking in the scene before him even as his mind crows with desire.

_Yes._

Hanging from the ceiling over the stage is a sling. Merlin's seen it before, strapped his partners into it multiple times, gripped the straps and revelled in the sensation of fucking a weightless body. But never has he participated in a scene like the one before him. Grunts and chuckles drift down from the stage, punctuated by profanity and the slap of skin on skin, and Merlin palms himself through the leather.

Five men stand on the stage, dressed in variations of Merlin's own attire. They surround a sixth man, the occupant of the sling, and Merlin moves forward without thinking.

The sub, or slave, or whatever he may call himself, is held naked and completely immobile. He's bent over at the waist, suspended so that his toes barely brush the ground. His arms are stretched to the side and up at a slight angle, bringing out the exquisite muscles of his back. His legs are separated by a spreader bar, and Merlin would be able to see the dusky skin of his hole in perfect detail if not for the man who's currently filling it with his fat, slippery cock. The Dom plunders the sub's arse with violent, powerful thrusts as the other men on stage beat off slowly. For a moment, Merlin thinks they're planning on painting the sub's flawless, golden skin with their cum, but the sharp glance one of them throws the one who's fucking the sub says otherwise. Merlin smiles to himself—tonight is the perfect night for a gangbang.

As soon as the first man pumps his release into the sub's arse, another takes his place. Merlin's less interested in him, however, than in memorizing in the lines of the sub's body. He walks slowly around the stage, taking note of the curve of the sub's arse, the way his calf muscles stand out starkly as he's thrust forward onto the very tips of his toes, the clenching of his stomach muscles as his body is used for pleasure. As Merlin approaches the sub's head, he hears a soft whimpering, but nothing more. The sub’s face and eyes are completely hidden by a hood, and a red rubber ball gag between his teeth muffles all but the most primitive sounds.

“Warlock.”

The use of his scene-name gets his attention, and Merlin tears his gaze away from the shining leather of the sub's hood. Looking up, he sees one of the Doms grinning down at him, and smiles in return.

“Sir Gwaine,” he replies.

Sir Gwaine extends his hand, and Merlin accepts the boost up onto stage as the invitation it is. He raises an eyebrow and nods towards the sub as another one of the Doms claims his turn. Sir Gwaine, a player as experienced as Merlin himself, understands immediately.

“He's public property tonight,” he laughs, and Merlin nods, satisfied. Knowing that the sub has consented to serve whatever Dom chooses to use him, Merlin allows himself to fall deeper into his own darkness, and runs a proprietary hand across the sub's shoulders.

The sub trembles under his touch, or maybe he shudders as one of the remaining Doms loses patience and comes across his back. Either way, Merlin revels in the feeling of strong muscles clenching helplessly beneath his palm. He trails his fingers down the sub's ribs, teasing and cruel, reaching underneath the sub’s quivering body and toying with the cock-ring that prevents his release.

The other Doms are starting to lose interest, he notices as he strokes the sub's balls absently. As the last finishes and pulls out, Merlin moves to take his place. Positioning himself directly behind the sub, he slides sure, possessive hands over the sub's hips...

...and freezes.

Between the dim lighting of the club and the men surrounding the sub, he hadn't noticed it before. But up this close, there's no mistaking the decoration on one side of the sub's lower back.

He knows that tattoo.

He's almost thrown completely out of his headspace as the months-old memory washes over him.

 _Bloody_ hell, _Merlin! Can't you do_ anything _right? Get this cleaned at once!_

Arthur had stripped off the coffee-soaked shirt and flung it in Merlin's face even as Merlin stammered out his apologies. It was only later, after barely finding a replacement in time for the meeting with the shareholders, that Merlin had realised his straight-laced, neurotically proper boss had had a red dragon tattoo peeking out just above the waistband of his slacks.

Now, Merlin reaches out to trace the outline of that same dragon, but stops when he sees how his hand trembles. He blinks rapidly, and it’s as though he can see both of them at once--his boss, sneering at him from behind an impenetrable shield of status and power, and the shaking sub before him who’s begging to be claimed.

He nearly stumbles back, fingers gripping the sub’s--Arthur’s, oh God, _Arthur’s_ \--hips hard enough to bruise. Then something moves out of the corner of his eye, and he sees Sir Gwaine and the other Doms watching with renewed interest. Behind them, a small crowd has begun to gather, and it’s the audience he wanted. Something hot and fierce flares inside him, and everything else falls away as he focuses on the smooth skin beneath his fingers.

He can do this.

He _wants_ to do this.

His lips curve in a smile as he strokes Arthur’s--God _yes, Arthur’s_ \--arse again, rubbing the leather on his palm over smooth skin. His fingers creep lower, spreading Arthur’s cheeks and running over his swollen, tender hole. Arthur moans in response and tries to push back into the touch.

The sound of Arthur’s desperation makes Merlin achingly hard, and he changes his mind abruptly. Stepping back, he’s careful to leave one hand in contact with Arthur’s skin, maintaining his claim as he walks around to stand in front of Arthur’s hooded face. He traces Arthur’s lips where they stretch around the ball gag, and Arthur whimpers.

“Why,” Merlin asks quietly, his voice disguised completely by the overwhelming power he’s been given, “has no one thought to use your mouth?”

Arthur gasps as the gag is removed, the muscles of his throat working silently as Merlin frees himself from his trousers. He’s so hard it hurts, but he pauses just before his cock touches Arthur’s lips. He can feel the warm air of Arthur’s exhalation on his skin, and he’s steady and commanding when he speaks.

“I’m not wearing a condom.”

Arthur’s breath hitches and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Merlin already knows what he’ll say--cum is still dribbling out of his hole, and they all signed the same papers when they arrived--but he needs to hear it spoken aloud just the same.

“Green,” Arthur chokes out, and Merlin smiles. Moving forward slightly, he traces the outline of Arthur’s swollen lips with the tip of his cock.

Arthur’s lips part, slick and smooth with spit. Merlin pauses, only just touching him, and Arthur presses forward, trying to draw Merlin into his mouth.

“No.” Merlin’s voice cracks like a whip. Arthur shudders, then freezes, and Merlin resumes his teasing. When Arthur’s trembling with the effort of holding completely still, Merlin nudges his hips forward.

The head of his cock slides between Arthur’s lips, and Arthur sucks at it eagerly. Merlin braces himself with a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, allowing Arthur to swirl his tongue around as much of Merlin’s cock as he can reach. Saliva runs down the chin of Arthur’s hood, and Merlin smiles at his greed.

“You want this,” he murmurs, his voice dark and hard. “You want me to feed you my cock, stuff you until you choke, fuck your pretty little mouth, don’t you?”

Arthur moans, lips wrapped tight around Merlin’s length, and Merlin chuckles.

“Show me how much you want it,” he orders, and Arthur obeys. He licks, noses, suckles Merlin’s cock like it’s the only thing in the world that matters, like it’s all he was made for. Merlin’s eyes narrow to slits as he watches, the heady rush of power coursing through his veins and making him dig his fingers into Arthur’s shoulder.

Finally, however, he begins to move. Planting his feet firmly and gripping Arthur by both shoulders, Merlin pulls back. Arthur gasps at the loss, then chokes as Merlin shoves himself down Arthur’s throat.

He sets up a punishing rhythm, barely allowing Arthur to breathe, and Arthur shakes and trembles under his hands. His jaw goes completely limp as Merlin uses him; he swallows at the peak of every thrust, spurring Merlin to go harder, faster.

“You--perfect--fucking--slut,” Merlin grinds out just before he comes down Arthur’s throat with one last, brutal thrust.

As the aftershocks of his orgasm tear through him, Merlin is dimly aware of the admiring laughter behind him. Arthur’s gasping for air, nose pressed against Merlin’s groin, and Merlin withdraws slowly. Arthur whimpers and lurches forward, but Merlin stays just out of reach. He can see the tension in Arthur’s body, equal parts frustrated arousal and fear of abandonment, and Merlin draws out the suspense, holding completely still as Arthur’s breathing grows more erratic.

He ends Arthur’s torment abruptly, swooping down and savaging Arthur’s red, swollen lips with a kiss that’s all ownership and control. Arthur melts into him, pliant and supple, and Merlin takes as much as he wants before breaking away.

He hears shifting behind him, and turns. The other Doms look eager to go another round, and Merlin offers them a satisfied half-smile.

“All yours,” he says, and they surge up onto the stage. Sir Gwaine catches his eye, and they both listen for any hint of Arthur trying to snap his fingers-- _Avalon's_ universal safeword when speech is impossible. But Arthur gives no sign of being near his limit, and Merlin has no desire to be there when the scene comes to the end. Sir Gwaine seems to understand, wrapping his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck and kissing him just as roughly as Merlin had. He holds Merlin’s gaze, accepting responsibility for seeing things through, and Merlin nods his thanks and heads to the showers feeling as though his entire body is made of lightning.

* * *

It takes him a long time to come down from the high. He’s still in no shape to drive by the time he’s showered and dressed; he’ll have to take a cab. He folds his discarded leathers carefully and tucks them safely away in his bag, before moving towards the door.

As he passes the room where subs are taken for aftercare, he hears a familiar voice speaking in an unfamiliar tone.

“Who was that?” Arthur still sounds shaky and blissed out, but his voice grows stronger with each word. “The man who took my mouth, who was he?”

Someone--Sir Gwaine, Merlin’s sure of it--murmurs something, and Arthur’s voice rises with agitation.

“I don’t _care_ about the others, I need to know _his_ name!”

“Warlock. His name is Warlock,” Sir Gwaine replies, just loud enough for Merlin to hear.

The sound of Arthur’s wondering voice repeating his name catapults Merlin out the door as though the room was on fire. He barely registers how he makes it to the exit, and doesn’t realize he’s outside until the cool evening air fills his lungs in a rush.

It’s like the very framework of his reality is shifting--he staggers slightly, struggling to re-establish the separation between the worlds inside and outside of _Avalon_. As he gasps for breath, he feels things slowly slotting into place, the sound of traffic in the street anchoring him in the dull, grey life he’s lived for too many years.

When he’s calmed down, he hails a taxi. He slides into the back easily and gives his address in a polite, impersonal tone, before staring blankly out the window like the thousands of average, everyday fares before him.

But even as he pays the driver and enters his bland, nondescript building, he knows that something’s changed inside of him. Whatever barricade he had in place before has cracked, and tendrils of dark heat seep through his body despite his distance from _Avalon_. He doesn’t know what it means, or what will happen next, but there’s one thing he knows for certain.

Work will never be the same again.

 _fin_  

 


End file.
